


dependency hence duplication

by SpectralSkyscraper



Series: judas and his betrayal [5]
Category: Grand Theft Auto V
Genre: 80's Music, 90's Music, Alternate Universe - 1990s, Author Is Sleep Deprived, Boys Kissing, Fluff, Kissing, M/M, Murder, Murder Husbands, Organized Crime, This is written at 3 am, Violence
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-05-13
Updated: 2018-05-13
Packaged: 2019-05-05 23:44:33
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,133
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14629547
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SpectralSkyscraper/pseuds/SpectralSkyscraper
Summary: It doesn't matter if it's unhealthy, if it's meant to crash and burn.





	dependency hence duplication

**Author's Note:**

> henlo my crime children murder someone in this so if u is not okay with reading that pls take care of urself and dont read, i care abt u
> 
> no suffering here, theys okay
> 
> Im sleeby

Trevor is at the beginning of a regretful sip of one of the worst cups of gas station coffee he's ever had. He looks up after the unfortunate first sip, over the aviators perched lowly on the edge of his nose, over the toes of his red Chucks propped up on the dashboard (mostly to spite Michael who cringes every time he sees a new scuff mark on any one of their "precious" cars), over the hood of the- illegally procured, as always- teal colored 1991 Mazda, to the seriously barren gas station parking lot ahead of him. No, really, Trevor thinks he sees a tumbleweed somewhere in the distance. The station is between a double highway, bracketed by a two-lane road on either side. Easy exit route. They've cased the joint and now all they have to do is wait for the perfect timing.

 

At least, that's what they're telling themselves. They have an unspoken agreement at the moment to enjoy the ambiance of a pre-heist high. 'Two of Hearts' by Stacy Q is playing over the crackling radio. He turns it up, but it still comes through the speakers with static. There isn't great service, as high in the mountains as they are. As far out in the middle of nowhere as they are. The perfect crime scene.

 

He eyes the stupid fancy wooden veneer of the dashboard under the scuffed soles of his kicks. Trevor prefers heavier vehicles like Fords and Jeeps but Mikey loves his sleek foreign cars, so alas; Trevor humors nearly anything Michael wants, as per the usual. He thinks, not for the first time, that there's a lot of things he'd humor for Mikey. The world outside the window soon catches his interest again.

 

It's dusky out. The sky in the distance is rather bright and breathtaking with its mix of blues and yellows bleeding into the darkening sky but the light doesn't reach him. It's dark where he is, only illuminated by a flickering light near the front door of the gas station and Trevor thinks there's probably something metaphorical and poetic in that but he's no poet so he'll leave it at that. He'd put aside pretty sunsets and the soft tunes pouring from the stereo any day in favor of the view next to him.

 

Oh. Right. Michael is sitting next to him. He'll blame his slow mind on the weed when he's looking back on this moment. Trevor looks to his left and in the driver's seat his fixation sits. _Light of my life, fire of my loins._ Trevor snorts into his (awful, probably burned) coffee, chipped black fingernails digging into the Styrofoam like it's to blame for his long time school-girl-esque appreciation for his (quite literal) partner in crime.

 

Now isn't the time for silently quoting questionably themed high school English class novels. Trevor's ruminating catches Michael's attention and he stares back at him. Trevor appreciates Mikey's tight black thermal shirt before bothering to meet his eyes.

 

Blue meets brown in some metaphysical and fucked up sexually charged version of a staring contest before Trevor breaks it, pushing his sunglasses further up his nose, over his eyes, so he doesn't feel as vunerable when he says it. The air inside the car is thick with blunt smoke. It's intoxicating. Distracting. Mikey and it have that in common.

 

Michael's eyes bore into him from where he's seated leant over the steering wheel with crossed arms.

 

Trevor moves to look straight ahead. The sight of Michael is more often than not too much to bear. "Hey." It's not much more than a whisper but it feels like a gunshot over the 80s pop playing.

 

Michael responds, as always, without a beat: "Hey, yourself." Aimless conversations like this are routine with the two of them, as high and nonsensical as they are prone to getting. He doesn't feel high. Trevor is as clear as the spotless windshield before him.

 

Trevor pops his door open to toss the rest of his (disgusting, he's having serious words with the clerk) coffee and slams it closed again. He only bought it to buy him enough time to get a good view of the gas station they're about to case, anyways.

 

"Y'know Mikey, I have just recently come to a bonafied _Trevor Philips trademarked_ realisation."

 

While Trevor lights a roach, Mikey's blue eyes glint with what Trevor hopes (hopes hopes hopes) is interest in the cold white light of the gas station and Michael responds. "That being?"

 

"'Think I'm addicted to you, Mikey." He says it in one breath. Sighs at the thought of Mikey's bluest of blue eyes and darkest ebony of hair. Smoke curls from his lungs in a fluid motion that almost feels like an encouraging caress. Addiction is accurate. Too accurate.

 

Michael puffs out a breath of smoke from his own steadily burning cigarette in his relaxed left hand that Trevor inhales like he craves it. He craves it. Trevor's head lolls and his sunglasses slip again to meet Mikey's eyes.

 

"Wouldn't be the first thing you got addicted to," says Michael. There are syringe tracks in Trevor's emaciated arms. He hasn't showered in a week and his hair is delicate and thin.

 

"Rude," Trevor quips back, plucking the cigarette out of Mikey's hand and putting it out on the seat, to make a point.

 

Michael scoffs at the childish behavior and reaches out his right arm and calloused fingers sneak into Trevor's unkempt ponytail at the base of his neck where russet hair meets faded and stretched and stained pink tee shirt (which he thinks but hopes T' didn't snatch off of a dead body) and Trevor melts into the kiss Michael offers.

 

Michael breathes smoke into Trevor's waiting mouth. This too, is routine. They're close. They breathe the same warm drugged air. A new song beings. Trevor doesn't focus on it. Like this, Trevor can close his eyes and pretend they are one. And he does. Ash falls onto the toe of his sneakers from where his arm is propped on his knee. He can't find it within him to care.

 

They are untouchable here, Trevor thinks. They fit against one another in a grating and uncomfortable way like the healing of a broken bone yet perfectly like they were made for one another. Made to break one another. They aren't at all good for each other and they are simultaneously all they could need or want or ask for. They are a matching yet jumbled set of oxymorons.

 

Trevor smirks into another kiss, feeling a particular type of invincible and reaches for the handgun rested in the cup holder in between them. Enough stalling, now.

 

He reaches back with his free hand and fixes his disheveled ponytail (courtesy of Michael Townley's annoying tendency to pull his hair), uncrosses his legs from the dash, and takes a moment to fix the french cuffs on his ripped jeans. Trevor is a pinnacle of cutting edge fashion, Michael will take any opportunity to sarcastically have you know.

 

Michael is way ahead of him and breaks away, unlocking both of their doors with a muted _click._ One red, unlaced sneaker hits the pavement. Two. Trevor notices the Sharpie marker smiley face that Mikey sketched into the left toe. Michael's pristine black boots are quick to follow. Trevor tosses Mikey a pair of sunglasses and hears the other's gun cock as he does the same. They've been in sync for a long time.

 

Michael reaches back into the car turns the volume the all the way up on that song by Blur that Trevor likes so much, (it's something about 'girls and boys', he can't remember) and leaves the doors open so passerby vehicles won't hear any possible (but not probable) gunshots. He sets off towards the gas station, Trevor in tow.

 

"Let's get to work," voices Trevor's all-consuming addiction.

 

Trevor smiles as he swings one half of the glass double door open and aims calmly at the cashier.

 

He knows this isn't healthy. He also knows neither Michael nor he have anyone but each other. Some addictions are born out of necessity. Trevor's gaze shifts from the cowering cashier to the only person he gives half a damn about.

 

They make a pretty picture, Michael the coverboy for teen angst, black tee shirt and blacker jeans and blackest boots next to Trevor's neon unbridled wildness, orange hoodie half hanging off his body, sleeves pushed up and multiple needle wounds stark near the pink of his shirt. Jeans a size too big and shoes twice as ratty. The only difference is either of their guns aimed at the unfortunate gas station attendee. Trevor's is a Smith and Wesson revolver nabbed from his mother's drawer on his way out for the last time. He likes the noise. He respects the rebellion of a rough recoil. Michael's is a classic Desert Eagle 44 Magnum that he's never said where he found. Precise, clean, accurate. Trevor's unpredictable flair to Michael's cold precision.

 

Trevor knows for a fact there aren't any cameras in here- very few gas stations have cameras just yet, but the two of them are ready for anything, hence the large aviator sunglasses so they're less likely to be remembered and spotted. They don't make mistakes anymore. Haven't in a long time.

 

Trevor promptly vaults the counter to aim the hand with the gun at the cashier and look through the options of cigarettes for Mikey (and maybe for himself but you didn't hear that from him) with the other.  Michael is rooting through the chips; he knows Trevor has it handled. There will be no miscalculations, as Michael calls them, or fuck-ups, as Trevor calls them. Long gone are the days of untrained trigger fingers and heated arguments over dead cashiers. They're far too good at this by now. Even so, Trevor works hard to stop his heart from swelling at the trust.

 

"Grab me something unhealthy, M." Trevor says as he gets to work pressuring the clerk to open the register. Mikey gives a wordless huff over in the candy isle. The ca-ching of the machine opening feels good, like scoring coins on the 'Space Invaders' game on his old Atari. Putting the money into his hoodie pockets feels even better.

 

Trevor ends up not picking up any cigs, those things are gonna end up killing Michael one day- he'll be damned if they get him too. He swipes a pack of Hubba Bubba though, and starts chewing the first piece. He grows bored waiting for Michael, and turns to the cashier. "Your coffee fuckin' sucks, y'know." He says as he hops back up onto the counter, blowing a bubble. Watermelon flavored. Nice.

 

The cashier's eyes are focused on the weapon and is probably too busy trying not to shit himself to reply. Trevor watches sweay stains appear under the poor guy's arms. "It really wouldn't _fucking_ kill you to change the grounds every coupla' hours, you plebian ingrate."

 

Just as he begins to grow irritated with the cashier's nervous silence, Michael trots over with a plastic bag full of snacks and other crap and nods to Trevor- 

 

Just as the clerk reaches under the counter with what he probably thought was subtlety and hits the panic button that calls the cops.

 

Trevor frowns and levels the gun at the guy- who's nametag under inspection reads "Bobby."

 

Bobby begins to cry. Trevor doesn't care. He doesn't quite remember if he ever did. Probably. He snaps himself out of his reverie- Mikey is waiting. _Bang._

 

The door closes with a jingle and they slide into their previous seats in the car. They're parked on the side of the building, Bobby never sees their car or it's license place. He'll never see anything again. Nothing to tell the cops. No witnesses. Routine. They turn the volume down to a hush, turn the headlights off. Routine. Pull around the back of the building. They idle until the cops arrive and when uniforms rush into the building, they quietly pull out the back parking lot entrance and make their way up the interstate. Routine. Michael too, Trevor thinks, in all his beauty and rage and mystery and addictive personality, is routine.

 

Michael lets Trevor stand up through the sunroof on the way back to their place. The wind undoes his ponytail and streetlights cast speeding yellow-orange lights over his face. He shuts his eyes. Mikey glances at Trevor then stares back at the road, thinking of the future and guns and money and what Trevor might like for his birthday.

 

It doesn't matter if it's unhealthy, if it's meant to crash and burn. Trevor flops back into his seat and stares at Michael. They're home. At least for now.

**Author's Note:**

> hope u liked. Pls leave suggestions for prompts of trev and mike and comment ur ideas


End file.
